


Birds of Seven

by justgottasingitoutofme, olive_blue_eyes



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: -Oliver, -bridget, Angst, Anyways kids, But also, F/M, Fluff, M/M, SO, Stanley Uris Has OCD - Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Suicide Attempt, be kind is all I’m sayin, but we out here trying our best, don’t even make eye contact with me, for like anything, oh yeah and tw for, so it’s cool, this could be triggering so stay safe loves!, this has got some like, this is our first fic ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:44:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justgottasingitoutofme/pseuds/justgottasingitoutofme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive_blue_eyes/pseuds/olive_blue_eyes
Summary: What would happen if Stan Uris decided to take a bath 27 years early?





	1. Blackbird.

_Blood._

_All Stan can see is the blood - coating his once relentlessly clean white sneakers and ankle-high socks and his neatly ironed polo_ _shirt, tucked primly into his newly stained khakis._

_His 6 best friends lie at his feet, limbs ripped; throats slit; disemboweled._

_Stan scrambles away from the figure towering over him, hands skidding in the pools of sticky, red, liquid leaking from his friends’ still-warm bodies._

_His back crashes into soft grass as his foot slips out from under him, halting the desperate crab walk he had been performing and forcing his head to fly back, terrified hazel eyes meeting with a pair of baleful golden ones from under long, sweeping lashes._

_A mouth full of hundreds of sharp, shark-like teeth rushes towards the helpless boy._

_The last thing he notes before he feels them pierce the soft skin of his exposed throat, head tilted back in an ear-piercing shriek, is the dull glow of stars behind the hazy cloud of Derry’s shitty air._

_A wave of very real pain crashes over Stan, then everything goes black._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Stanley Uris’s eyes snapped open, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

Messy, tight, brown curls were plastered to the boy’s forehead with a sheen of sweat. All he registered was the faint yellow luminescence of the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars he’d gotten his best friend, Bill, for his birthday five years ago, when he was nine and going through an unabating astronomy phase. Stan remembered the nights the pair would sneak out onto Bill’s roof and make ‘telescopes’ with rolled up pieces of paper so Bill could point out eye-catching constellations for Stan, like Stan could point out beautiful birds with his binoculars for Bill. The stars had been plastered on his ceiling ever since - long faded by now, but still a close enough match to the stars Stan had just blinked away from behind his closed eyelids for him to blanch with fear.

Stan’s eyes shifted away from the ceiling and he realized he was yet to take a breath since startling awake. He quickly gasped in a mouthful of air, but he couldn’t stop the high, reedy, breathless scream that squeezed its way from his achey, tight, throat.

The nightmare had seemed so real, felt just like when It had really been here, in Derry, snatching dozens of children and Stan’s sense of safety forever along with them.

The 15-year old could feel a crushing weight begin to press down on his chest, breath wheedling through his pinhole of a throat as he recollected the events that had taken place in his town only a few months earlier.

He couldn’t even stand to think about IT- Eddie’s disgusting leper, rotting from the inside out; Bev’s bathroom, covered in blood, rank with a metallic stench like an old penny.

Stan didn’t think he’d ever be rid of the memory of that bathroom. Towel after towel wrung out, watered-down gore splashing its way down the bathtub, sprinkling Stan with little drops of pink over his light shirt like aberrant freckles. He had sighed and offered to go wash all the ruby-tinged cloths at the laundromat, as if it was a chore. But really, he needed it, was screaming for an escape. Needed to get away from those walls completely coated with red. Coated with red, like he had been moments before in his nightmare, struggling to slip away from the towering form that had scarred him so badly.

Scarred him - literally.

Stanley couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror anymore, the raw, pink, marks marring the smooth skin around his jawline and temples a constant reminder of the ordeal he just couldn’t seem to recover from.

Not that the scars were the only blemish he sported recently - his ribs were clearly outlined against his chest, demanding to be seen, a silent plea for nourishment that went ignored. Stanley was all harsh angles, hips jutting out against his already thin and lanky frame and elbows sharp. He could never really think about eating when all that was ever on his mind were those children. The ones that had been floating above him in the Standpipe, with the rotting skin and dead eyes.

Stan’s lack of sleep was beginning to show, to mark his body as well, in the dark half-moons resting beneath his lower lashes in a spectacular array of purples and blues to compliment the red tinge of his weary eyes. His mother had commented on it recently: _Stanley_ , _that_ _Bowers boy hasn’t been bothering you at school again, has he?_ Did he really look that bad?

It was just that every time he walked past the horrible, disfigured painting of the woman in his father’s office, Stan couldn’t think of anything but the sharp teeth sinking through his skin, the maw of the flute lady blocking out any meager light that previously shone from his flashlight, her putrid breath filling his nose and - oh god.

The tall boy scrambled out of the sleeping bag that had been neatly laid out at the foot of Bill’s bed, bile rushing up his throat.

Barely avoiding stepping on Ben’s leg and narrowly missing a kick to Richie’s nose, Stan dashed out of his friend’s spacious room and sprinted down the hallway towards the bathroom, not even giving a second thought to where he was going. Countless sleepovers at Big Bill’s over the years had conditioned Stan. He knew every nook and cranny of his stuttering friend’s house, as did most of the other Losers.

Stan skidded around a corner, racing through the bathroom door and groping for the light switch. Much like a baseball player skidding onto the home plate, he then slid on his knees and grasped the toilet seat before he upchucked everything he had eaten in the past few hours- which wasn’t much.

The sickening stench that filled the room only fueled another round of painful retches, tears beginning to run down Stan’s face. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to throw up - his throat still felt about the size of a needle. He was struggling to pull in air, faint wheezing noises echoing around the bathroom, not quite loud enough for his friends to hear through the wall separating them.

Stanley’s thin chest hitched up and down as he gasped for air, hands gripping at the soft carpet that laid in front of the cold porcelain of the toilet he was now resting his back on. Thin trails of tears rolled down his cheeks, nose dripping, unable to sniff per lack of air.

 _Stop_ _crying, Stan, he scolded himself. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a nightmare; get yourself under control. You’re going to wake up the other Losers, and they already have enough problems of their own without having to worry about you. Tough it out, like they all do._

Stanley let out a quiet sob and slumped further against the toilet as he thought about Bill - brave Bill, unnamed but unquestioned leader of the pack, never scared to speak his mind. Yes, maybe he stuttered, but he had a strong and kind aura about him. When he talked, people listened. Bill, with his soft blue-green eyes and auburn hair; his seemingly endless supply of warm flannels, baseball tees, and those god-awful jorts.

 _Man up and act like him. Stop fantasizing_. Stan sniffled quietly and realized the pressing weight on his chest was lifting, and he could breathe a little better. _Can’t even fucking breathe right. You suck, man,_ his psyche pestered.

Stan thought he was probably right.

Sure, Eddie had his share of debilitating asthma (anxiety) attacks as well, but he was braver, so much braver than Stanley, who couldn’t even stand going into some dumb old house in the middle of the fucking day even to save his best fucking friend. In fact, if anything, Eddie seemed to be standing a little taller ever since he snapped his arm like a twig in Neibolt and then hours later proceeded to blackmail his mother into submission after years of being fed lies.

Stan, on the other hand, was still just a slowly heavying weight to be dragged along by his friends. It seemed like he had no redeeming qualities, like Richie’s humor or Mike’s never-ending patience and kindness. All Stan had anymore were snapped words, agitation, and ceaselessly trembling, nervous hands.

Ever since It happened, his long near dormant OCD had ramped up again for the first time since third grade and made a roaring comeback, leaving Stan an unfocused, anxious mess.

When Stan was 8, his disorder had begun to show itself through an intense need for everything to be right; in order. It had to be exactly the way he wanted it - no, _needed it_. There was no other way to explain it.

He would cry if his carrots and his peas touched at dinner, because the colors weren’t allowed touch, they just _weren’t_. Seeing the surplus of bright colors and shapes mix left a tightness in his throat and nausea building in his chest, along with a screaming in his head for it to stop.

Stan would break down every 6 weeks when it came time to change seats in class, because it was good the way it was; it was familiar. There was no point in changing the order of things. He didn’t like change. It left that horrible ache in his body and his mind rushing for cleanliness, neatness, familiarity; anything besides the smudged erasers and the crooked, wrinkled, name tags plastered on the chests of his confused and worried classmates.

Stanley would scream if his mother tried to push him out the door before he could lock and unlock the door seven times, or at least until he hit the right number and felt a small rush of satisfaction flood through his chest.

Tears would fall if Richie tried to rush him across the street to Eddie’s house before he got to look left and right the amount of times that felt correct. No one cared that Richie wanted wanted to play; Stan had to get the perfect amount of leftrightlefts, even if it meant they had to wait extra long because the cars passed before they got their chance to cross and he had to restart.

They didn’t understand. It was a routine, he had to have it that way. He found security and comfort in his routines, so when they were ripped away from him, Stan became overwhelmed and he just needed everything to _stop stop stop._

One night, Bill was over at Stanley’s house, the pair perched on his bed with a notepad in Bill’s lap and bird identification guide in Stan’s. The latter would point out his favorite birds to the former, and together they would draw them in Bill’s notebook, a plethora of messy lines just vaguely resembling a purple martin or a snowfinch. Stan had had a particularly rough morning that day, missing his school bus because he had counted his steps down the stairs and to the bus stop carefully. His mother had driven him instead, casting him worried glances through the rear view mirror for the duration of the ride. His parents had been very wary of his increasingly insistent habits lately and he knew it was only a matter of time until they intervened somehow.

That evening, as he and Bill were splayed out on his bed, Stan heard the front door open and close, indicating his father’s return from work. He and Stan’s mother would soon be in their living room, discussing their days over cups of tea- something they did every day to “promote family bonding”. Stan tried, as effectively as he could from one floor up, to listen intently to their conversation, knowing his rocky morning would be brought up. Sure enough, he heard his name uttered in a worried timbre just minutes later. His parents’ voices hushed quickly after that, however, so Stanley decided to forget about it and focus on his time with Bill.

As much as he tried to focus on his drawings, Stan could soon make out a quiet, angry, argument drifting from downstairs. His parents’ voices gradually grew louder, until Stan’s mother all but screamed, _“There’s something wrong with our son, Donald_!” Bill heard it, freezing and glancing nervously towards Stan, who simply flinched and continued scribbling lines onto his sheet of paper.

The next morning, Stan didn’t miss the bus because he was at the doctor’s office, suffering through a multitude of questions and exams. He and his mother exited an hour later, prescription in hand. He asked her what if was for, and she told him it was for him- so he didn’t have to cry so much anymore.

With the help of the medicine, as the fast-growing boy progressed into fifth grade, the compulsions slowly faded away; much to the relief of his peers, teachers, and parents. His own mind was finally calmed. The only remains of the OCD was a slight twitch in Stan’s fingers or a hitch in his breath if he noticed one side of the collar on one of Richie’s horrible hawaiian shirts was flipped up, or if the books in his room were somehow moved out of their tallest to shortest order.

Right after It’s existence was confirmed, however, the OCD reared its ugly head, full force, right back into Stan’s life like it never left.

It was almost the same - compulsions and an implacable need for perfection. But this time, sequences were insistently seven.

Wherever Stanley walked, he counted his steps. If he was forced to stop before he hit a multiple of the lucky number, he had to go back and start again. Before he dismounted his bike, a bell rang, every single time: ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.

Along with the increased strength of this necessity came a new one: a need to feel impeccably clean. Stan’s clothes had to be ironed, neatly tucked, neatly folded, neatly creased. If he saw a fleck of lipstick outside of the plump lines of Beverly’s lips, or that Richie had a smudge on his glasses, his hands itched to either clean it or turn away until they could fix it themselves. If he found a fleck of dirt or food on himself, he had to clean it, then thoroughly wash his hands. His hands were cracked and dry from the constant scrubbing and cleaning.

Stanley’s beautiful friends were endlessly patient with him, but it was truly beginning to take a toll on everybody. He had gotten worse about going out with the Losers now than Eddie had during those especially windy couple of weeks back in second grade during the spring, when he was convinced that he was deadly allergic to pollen.

As much as he wanted to spend time with his friends, sometimes Stanley just needed everything to slow down a little. To give him a break before he cracked under the pressure of the world pressing down around him.

Those times were becoming increasingly frequent.

_They hang out with you because they feel bad for you, Stan. Without them, you would have absolutely no one. Your parents barely even tolerate you anymore. You can’t read the Torah right; you don’t have interest in any girls to start a nice Jewish family so your mother can have grandkids. You don’t have anything your parents want._

Stan’s breathing had finally returned to normal and he sat up a little straighter. That dreadfully familiar ache begin to flood his chest, pulling at his heart and weighing him down. His throat twinged and he swallowed uncomfortably as his head began to swim with thoughts rushing by too fast for Stanley to grasp. He just needed it to

 _stopstopstop_.

He was the weakest link of the seven-person chain. He was bound to break at some point.

Everyone else seemed over it. They barely ever jumped at loud noises anymore, Bev used her bathroom like it had never been saturated in blood, and Bill could even ride past the Derry storm drains without flinching these days.

But Stan? For some reason, it seemed like he just couldn’t forget it. It didn’t matter anymore, he guessed. He was finished being weak, feeling scared and tired all the time. He was tired of dealing with it all- the nightmares, the anxiety, and the stares out of the corners of eyes when people thought his head was turned. The exhausting routines his brain forced him to follow, and seeing the puckered, red, scars on his cheeks as a constant reminder of how everything had gone so, so, incredibly wrong.

He stood up on shaky legs, toes sinking into the plush rug on the bathroom floor, wobbling like a newborn colt. The thin boy steadied himself against the counter, warily studying his worn-looking body in the mirror- the undereye bags, the protruding ribs and hips, the shiny new skin healing over the scars on his face - and he decided he was going to make it

_stop._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading!  
> Any feedback, constructive criticism, kudos, etc. would be flippin great. This is our first fic, so let us know how we’re doing!  
> Find us on tumblr:  
> Bridget- @eleuthoeromania Oliver, who does some bomb ass art you should check out- @catradoracore


	2. Blackbird, Part Two.

Stanley Uris wasn’t stupid- he knew his best friend’s bathroom at two o'clock in the morning, with 6 sleeping kids one thin wall away, wasn’t exactly the ideal place to off himself, but it didn’t matter. Any rational thoughts that raced through his overtaxed brain were thrown out the window. He just needed it to _stop_.

Stan glanced around the bathroom, eyes quickly landing on a package of sleek silver razors nestled in a cabinet under the bathroom counter. Perfect. He quickly locked the bathroom door and snatched the package from the shelf, fingers trembling with anticipation. He turned around, facing the pristine white bathtub. He reached for the faucet, ready to turn on the water and fill the tub, but he paused.

_Shit_. The water would be too loud; at least one of the Losers would probably wake up, walk to the bathroom, and find him.

No, Stanley had to figure out another way. He retracted his hand, mind scrabbling for any new plan he could grasp. Hazel eyes bounced around the baby blue walls of the bathroom, desperate for something, anything-

They came to a rest on a wooden cupboard set on the wall next to the mirror, one partially open door screaming an invitation.

The medicine cabinet.

Stan struggled to keep himself from rushing forward; approaching calmly, but with hands scrambling to open the wooden doors. When the cabinet was unlatched, a plethora of bottles were displayed before him, all different sizes, colors and labels. Stan was immensely relieved. He had a way out, finally a way to make it  
  
_stopstopstop_.

There was only one problem- Stan had absolutely no idea how do go about choosing the right pills. He vaguely remembered the drug unit in the health class he took last year- drugs like antidepressants and sleeping pills were beta-blockers, and slowed down the heart in order to relax the user. Surely if he took enough of those, he could just make his heart would just _stopstopstop_ completely?

Stanley decided that that plan was good as any. He began to sort through the bottles, scanning labels for any indication that the pills they contained might be helpful.

He was taking extra care to stay quiet- not wanting to wake his friends and interrupt their sleep, and more importantly, his chance at freedom. As careful as he was, however, Stan’s wrist moved just a little bit too far to the left while reaching for the cabinet, sending two or three bottles sailing to the floor with an unforgivingly loud crash.

“ _SHIT_!” Stan whispered, flinching.

He stayed completely frozen, listening for any signs of movement from the adjoining rooms. When, after a few minutes, none came, the boy cautiously bent down to pick up the fallen bottles. “Amitriptyline”, one read. Stan frowned. As his friend’s confidant, he faintly remembered Bill telling him about a new antidepressant he had been put on a few months ago, not too long after Georgie’s disappearance. The name sounded slightly familiar, and the bottle had Big Bill’s name written across the top. Antidepressant, then, Stan concluded. He set the bottle aside, searching for another to use just in case he was wrong.

He scanned the labels of the other two bottles that had dropped. One was Tylenol, which he immediately placed back in the cabinet- it wouldn’t be strong enough. _Hey, kind of like me._ The other bottle was labeled “Oxazepam”. Stan knew what those were; his mother took them for her insomnia. They were relatively strong sleeping pills, and would work just fine for him.

He collected the two bottles in his arms and quietly shut the doors of the cabinet. The boy was so focused on one purpose- to make it

_stopstopstop_ -

that he didn’t think twice about the wrongness of going through someone else’s medicine cabinet, or of his parents, or even the prospect of his friends finding him on the floor later, gone, freed, mind finally silent.

His hands shook with anxiety and anticipation as he reached for the cap of the first bottle. He spilled 7 pills onto the counter before carefully screwing the lid back on and moving the bottle aside. He did the same with the next, leaving 14 bright capsules lying in front of him on the marble countertop.

He collected each one into his hand, and after a heaving sigh- the kind that could only be released at the letting go of a significant amount of pain- he swallowed the pills. This was what he wanted. It was finally going to

  
_stop_.

 

__________________________

 

“ _Stan?”  
_

 

_“What the… wrong… him?”_

 

_“Suh- someone cuh-cuh-call….”_

 

_“Can…. hear me?_ ”

 

When Stan’s eyes reopened, his world was a haze of swirling colors and earsplitting white noise. Someone was lightly tapping on his cheek, but as he became more aware, it was definitely becoming more of a rough slap.

He let out a moan, which didn’t help the fact that it felt like his head was splitting in two at every bright noise and sound that stabbed into his brain. He could vaguely make out shapes moving in front of him, uncomfortably close to his face. He could hear snippets of panicked-sounding conversation, but he didn’t understand it, words slipping through one ear and out the other.

Stan felt a hand slip into his own, effectively grounding him a little bit more, surroundings adjusting into better focus. With the newfound awareness, he suddenly noticed the most horrible, intense, pain he’d ever felt radiating from his stomach. His skin felt as if it was on fire and the ache from his abdomen felt like someone had stabbed a knife into his stomach and was slowly twisting back and forth.

He tried to scream in pain, but his breath hitched and he realized he _couldn’t_ _breathe_. The curly-haired boy began gasping for air; chest stuttering, head pounding, stomach aching, and skin burning. Everything was blurring out again, and Stan vaguely registered hands grabbing at his face, arms, rubbing his chest and trying in vain to calm to down. The touch over his abdomen just fueled more agony. His vision swam dangerously and blackened at the edges. His fight for consciousness was clearly a losing battle.

  
“STAN!”

 

“....B-BREATHE”

 

“SOME….. HELP”

 

“.... OUT”

 

  
Unrecognizable shapes still screaming in front of him, Stanley’s body gave in to the pain and panic. Vision finally collapsing into its dark edges, his eyes slipped shut.


	3. Grey Jay.

_Crash!_

Bill lurches out of his bed, throwing the covers off almost immediately. He pauses, and stills for a moment.

Silence. Not another sound is made, and he tries to distinguish the source.

His heart pounds in his chest, because _what the fuck was that?_ He peers around the bedroom, in the darkness, and sees nothing.

He lays back down and is starting to close his eyes, when he spots Stanley’s sleeping bag on the floor. It lies between Mike’s and Bill’s bed.

And it’s empty.

He sits up again as he hears the sink running.

Then, slowly, carefully, he crawls out of bed, careful not to make any noise. He crosses the bedroom in bare feet, avoiding stepping on his friends sleeping below him. He makes his way toward the bathroom door.

He reaches for the doorknob and tries to twist it.

It doesn’t work.

The bathroom door is locked.

Something is happening.

“Stanley,” Bill whispers. He knows he’s too quiet to be heard through the door. If he is in there.

If he’s listening.

He tiptoes down the hallway to one of the many doorways lining it. He reaches to the top, above the door, and pulls down a lock pick. It isn’t sketchy like a paperclip, it’s metal and painted gold.

The he scurries back to the bathroom and frantically picks at the keyhole.

When he hears the lock click, he flicks wrist and throws his body against the door, busting it open at the speed of light.

He feels his heart rate go up as he stumbles into the room.

Bill thinks he might throw up.

Stan is lying motionless on the bathroom floor. His eyes are closed. His face is completely blank, but Bill can still see his chest moving up and down.

_He’s still conscious. He’s alive. For now._

Bill’s brain continues to burn at the idea of Stan dying, right here by his side. He sinks to the ground next to him.

“M.. _Mike!”_ He cries, loud enough for the whole house to hear. _“Eddie! Rich—!”_ The other kids jolt awake, sleep disturbed.

Richie is the first to reach them, sliding across the tile in his stupid neon socks.

“Holy shit, _fuck—_ what happened?” He asks, immediately concerned.

Eddie, Mike and Ben appear in the doorway behind him; followed by Beverly, whose lipstick is one hell of a mess.

“Stanley…” Mike breathes, his voice is small and hinted with sadness.

“Oh my god! What the fuck is wrong with him...What _happened!”_ Eddie shrieks. “Is he…?”

“N-no.” Bill pipes up at last. He, too, is quiet as his brain struggles to understand the situation.

“What did he take?” Richie asks him, tilting his head at the orange bottles scattered on the countertop beneath the overhead sink cabinet.

Bill’s head snaps to counter. He hadn’t noticed them upon coming in at first.

_Oh, shit._

_Shit._

This was _so_ much fucking worse than he’d previously thought. It was on _purpose._

Richie walks over and examines the bottles, skimming over the labels and pushing his glasses back up on his nose.

Bill turns his attention back to Stanley, still silent on the ground. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, adding to the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Bill pulls his limp body into his arms.

 _“STAN!”_ He yells again, fearing the whispers around him would do no help in the waking him. If he did. “Can y-you—can you hear muh-m-me?” Getting no response, he begins tapping on Stan’s cheek.

Beverly absently takes hold of Ben’s hand and squeezes it, her other hand cupping her mouth.

“Suh- someone. Cuh-c-call 911.” He whispers, eyes still wide open and strained. He’s too quiet for anyone to hear him, and they all continue to stand by the door, blinking. “I _said, call nuh-n-nine. One. One.”_ He says, louder.

Mike starts to slowly back away, towards the phone by the bed. He breaks into a run when Bill turns to them, furious, and screams;

 _“I SAID CALL A FUH-FUCKING AMBULANCE!”_ The rest of the group all break apart, looking slightly hurt. Richie, startled, feels his body jolt; and the bottles drop from his hands and clatter down into the sink. A few smaller capsules fall down the drain.

That’s when Bill notices Stan’s eyes are slightly opened. His breathing is a little less shallow. Bill lifts his head a little higher, a hand running through his tangled hair.

“Oh hell, are you okay? Are you— can you hear me, Stanley?” He asks him, tears starting to prick his eyes.

Stanley looks dazed. He doesn’t respond, save for an involuntary pain-filled moan. His half-lidded eyes drag over the room slowly, over Bill, and somehow, he doesn’t seem to be taking in or processing any of it. Bill thinks he sees dried tear tracks lining his face. He’d been crying earlier.

_My god, what was he thinking? What went through his mind when he… he…_

The boy laying in his lap lets out a whimper, eyes still heavy but clouded with pain.

“Shh, buddy, you’re okay,” Bill whispers, attempting to keep his voice steady. Watching Stan’s lids droop and his chest stutter, Bill begins to panic. “Hey, stay with me, man, don’t fall asleep.” It’s no use; he helplessly watches Stan’s eyes shut again.

He’s out.

“Stan? Shit.”

“Looks like the sleeping pills have been kicking in,” Richie comments from up behind Bill.

“T-tthe _what?”_ Bill asks him, staring blindly up at his shining lenses.

Richie holds up and shakes two bottles, the pills shaking and rattling like maracas.

“And these...things?” He says, handing them over.

Bill recognizes them instantly. They’re his. He’s been taking them for almost a year now, and they’ve been working. He thinks they have. He’d like them to. He stuffs them in his pocket.

“Oh, fuck.” a voice behind him whispers. Bill whips around to find Eddie, eyes widened in fear. “What?” Bill demands. _“What?”_

He looks down at Stan.

“He cuh-can’t fucking _breathe._ He’s not _fucking b-breathing!”_ He yells, hands shaking by his sides.

_Stanley could die here, you know. Taunts his brain. Get up you idiot. You aren’t helping him by crying._

He sucks in a breath, wiping at his eyes.

“Ben,” He says, finally. Ben snaps up from comforting Beverly, who stifles a sob with her pajama sleeve. “Help me carry him out front. The ambulance should be here soon.”

Ben nods, letting go of Bev’s shoulders and walking swiftly to where Bill sits.

Mike sits on the bed by the phone, messing with his hands and gets up solemnly.

The house is _so damn quiet._ It’s as if no one is allowed to make a sound. Like this is some game,

_This is all some fucking game! It’s a nightmare and I want to wake up. Take me out of here,  
Please—_

The rise-and-fall rhythm of Stanley’s chest begins to slow. His rib cage seems to shudder.

_Fuck, that can’t be good._

 

* * *

 

The ambulance arrives seven minutes later.

Bill stares out at the road as Stan is taken from his arms and loaded onto a stretcher.

The last thing he sees of him is an IV being stuck into his arm, watching it break skin, before the doors slam shut in his face. Then, the ambulance pulls out of the driveway, and is screaming down the street and stopping for no one.

“You alright, Bill?” He can hear Richie ask from behind him. Of course, it’s in one ear and out the other. His head is underwater, and he’s torn between laying down, and chasing after Stan.

He doesn’t know long he’s been kneeling on the pavement when Beverly takes her jacket and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s cold out, and far too early to be awake for any of them.

Mike’s car sputters to a start as he turns the ignition key.

“Get in,” he tells them. “We should see what’s going on over there.”

No one disagrees, and they all silently clamber into the truck and it speeds off through the neighborhood.

The air between the six of them is thick and heavy, and not a single conversation is sparked, before they fall asleep on each other’s shoulders. Richie rolls down the window next to him, and lets the cool wind blow on his face for a while.

The streets of Derry are nearly empty, save for a few people coming home from or leaving for late shifts, and workers closing stores down. It’s one in the morning, and the town has fallen silent.

It takes ten minutes to reach the hospital. They trip over themselves getting out of the car, and shove through the large glass doors. The lights are sickeningly bright. Their ugly white radiation paints the room in a horrid contrast to the black sky outside.

Eddie decides to lock himself inside the bathroom, and the remaining losers all sit in a row against the wall of the waiting room. They tap their hands and feet idly, as Ben and Mike inform the woman working the front desk of their situation.

Bill pulls the jacket around himself tighter, and shivers a little. The air conditioning feels like it’s been turned all the way up in this building. Beverly and Richie put their arms around him, and they all wait for an update of any kind.

A few moments later, Bill just starts crying. Nothing specifically prompts it, and his reaction is oddly delayed. But he’s sobbing rather hard and no one feels they should question him right now.

Instead, he leans over onto Richie, and Beverly again puts a hand on his shoulder.

His ragged breathing eventually slows and melts into normal breaths, and sleep catches up with him.

His eyelids start to weigh down, before a nurse comes down the hallway, gaze focused on all of them.

The clack of her heels slows and she stops in front of where they sit.

“I assume you all are here for—“

“Stanley.” Bill croaks, eyes open but staring at the floor.

“Small town,” Richie whispers from next to him.

“Well, I’ll make this short then,” The nurse begins, and Bills eyes shoot open wide, his head snapping up to meet her gaze.

“His vitals are faint at this point. But he’ll likely live if we move quickly. We’re going to give him charcoal to wash out any drugs and toxins that he hasn’t digested yet. He’s currently in the ICU, and we’ll have to monitor him for a while, but we’ll give you a call when you can visit.”

Bill lets himself breathe.

She adjusts her grip on the clipboard, looking a little sympathetic. “You all look tired. It would be best to go home and rest for now. You should be able to check on him tomorrow. We’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”

Beverly swallows next to him. “Yeah, thank you.” She answers for him, smiling briefly, before the nurse walks away and into a room. Beverly, Richie, and Bill all lean into each other. Further down the line, Mike comforts Ben, with both arms around him. Eddie has returned to his seat, face slightly red and kicking at the legs of his chair.

Beverly exhales, before whispering to Bill, “It’s going to be okay, he’ll be fine. I promise.”

She stands slowly, nodding at the doors opposite them. “We should go.” The rest of the kids rise shakily, balancing themselves, and one by one, leave the hospital.

 

* * *

 

The second car ride of the night is quiet, and Bill can’t tell if it’s more or less uncomfortable than earlier. He lets himself sleep, resting his head against the window.

In front of him, Richie rubs sleep from his eyes, and turns to Eddie.

“You doing alright there, Eds?” He asks.

“I can’t believe he didn’t even say anything.” His voice is pitiful. It’s strained and squeaky, barely breaking the car’s hushed ambience. “What was he _thinking?  
Fuck—”_ He coughs violently, fingers scraping at his eyes, before drying them with his sleeve.

Richie pulls Eddie closer and wraps his arms around him, in an attempt to comfort him; before looking over at Bill. He looks so worried and stressed and exhausted— and he has every right to be.

But, Richie can’t help but feel terrified about how this will affect everyone else. No one else seems to have had a major reaction. Surely this couldn’t have been hard on _just_ Bill?

After a while, the engine’s hum cuts off, and the driver’s side door opens. Mike gets out and stands, waiting for the others. Beverly runs a hand through her thick red curls, tapping Ben lightly. He looks up at her and smiles sadly, before getting out behind her.

Bill, Richie, and Eddie exit last; and they all drag themselves back into the house, and collapse onto their respective pillows.

Bill stays awake a little longer than the rest, staring at the ceiling. His eyes are drying out and burning, but he can’t sleep.

He tries to close his eyes and keep them shut.

It’s two in the morning by the time he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a little less than a day since Stanley was stolen from him, and Bill doesn’t feel better in the slightest when the blinding sunlight pries its way through his curtains. He doesn’t want to move. His chest feels weighted and heavy, and his bones have a strange, dull itch to them. It isn’t the relaxing sort of heavy you’d expect from being exhausted all the time; it feels tense and uncomfortable. It doesn’t drag him down any more than it hurts and feels _so god damn itchy._ It’s odd, he’s never felt something this particular before. It feels as if someone’s cut open his chest and wedged dense slates of iron beneath his ribcage.

He feels a little less pressured to get out of bed when he realizes how quiet the house is. Sure, it’s _his_ house, and his parents are probably at work, but where was everyone?

After a few minutes—he doesn’t bother checking the clock by his bedside— he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. It creaks beneath him, and his joints crack, one after the other. His eye accidentally catches the mirror on the wall by his door. His eyelids are puffy, yet somehow the space around them is hollowed out and replaced with shadow. His hair is scruffy, but his eyes still have a shine to them. He decides he doesn’t look too bad, and swings his bedroom door open.

Bill stumbles down the carpeted stairs to the kitchen, to find it empty with the lights still off. A candle is lit on the counter, with a crumpled paper next to it. He walks closer and picks it up. It’s a note from Beverly.

_Bill,_

_We’ve left the house for the day so you can have some time for yourself. You’ve been sleeping pretty heavily all day, so we’d thought to give you a day alone. We’ll probably just get lunch and hang out downtown for a while. ~~and throw shit into the lake~~ -Rich. We will not be doing that. Hope you feel better soon. Talk to us when we get back, okay?_

_Bev._

He stuffs it in his pocket, and his gaze shifts to the candle. The wax is mostly melted, it’s been burning for a while. He reads the label. It’s scented like “Summer Breeze,” whatever that means. He blows it out almost instantly, and without a second thought. The smoke lingers in the air before dissipating into nothing.

Bill’s stomach burns. It’s empty, but he finds himself not really “ _hungry_ ,” and he finally looks at the time. And, _Christ, it’s almost three pm._ He hasn’t eaten in forever. Almost two days. Somehow, he guesses, he forgot.

He opens the fridge door, letting the cool air dance around his skin. It feels great, and he rummages quickly through drawers, careful not to pull them out all the way. He doesn’t find anything particularly appealing; just a ton of leftovers from all the times his parents have been getting takeout, instead of actually cooking, like they used to.

After about half an hour, he realizes that— no matter how much he heats up this or pours seasoning on that— everything carelessly shoveled into his mouth tastes like _paste,_ tastes like _shit,_ and it’s all in a failed effort to give himself some kind of energy. But it’s fine, he decides, his appetite is seemingly nonexistent today.

He rests his head on the counter and just waits to wake up from whatever weird hell dream he’s been sent into. He can’t wait for Stan to wake him up too early to remind him that _“the early bird gets the worm!”_ He can’t wait for Richie to yank him from his nightmare and say that Mike’s burned breakfast again. He waits and waits to feel something, _anything,_ as well, and it doesn’t happen.

Giving up on eating for the time being, he fills a glass with water and ends up chugging several cups of it. His mouth is still a little dry.

The silence is almost too much for him. Every sound made by his fumbling hands echos through the entire house, so he’s as quiet as possible now.

The air conditioning streaming through the vents is the only thing keeping the clock on the wall’s ticking from driving him crazy. Although he’s still pretty drowsy, his senses are oddly heightened; and every move he makes matters.

_How could he have messed up this horribly? He should have known._

He splashes cold water on his face to wash away something. He doesn’t know what. Exhaustion? Worry? Doubt?

Likely all of the above.

 

* * *

 

**_One Year Earlier._ **

 

_“Promise me you’ll all come back here. Promise me, okay? We can fight It together— we beat It this time, but It’s still alive. It’s going to return at some point. And when It does, I need you all to swear— swear that you’ll come back. Please.”_

_Stanley picks a shard of broken glass off the ground, handing it to Bill first. He stares at him, wanting to say something but at a loss of words._

_Bill nods at him, and places the edge on the side of his palm, before digging it into his hand, and sliding it across. The movement is less than smooth, and it leaves a somewhat jagged horizontal gash. He curses through his clenched teeth._

_The other kids follow, all making identical cuts in their right hands._

_Finally, Stan himself is last. For a moment, he puts the sharpened tip on his wrist, on the vein, and it looks as if he’s going to slash his forearm open as he presses it against his skin—_

_before he pulls it away and offers a pained smile. It isn’t a typical expression, one that may suggest he was only joking; but Bill can’t quite place it— so he doesn’t interfere._

_He looked fucking serious._

_Stan slices open his own palm, and drops the bloodied glass to the ground._

_Bill grabs his hand almost immediately, gripping it as tight as he can. He sees Stanley try not to wince as his blood smears across Bill’s fingers._

_Bill shifts his gaze at all of his friends, all happy to stand together alive. What a summer. They stay this way for a while, before dropping their hands and glancing around the circle._

_Bill turns to Stanley to say something, but shuts his mouth instantly._

_Stan isn’t smiling at all. He’s on the verge of crying._

 

* * *

_**Present.** _

 

Despite being up for less than two hours, his brain starts whining for sleep again. He’s slept for— _fuck,_ — almost twelve hours today. Why the _hell_ is he tired? Nevertheless, he drags himself back up the stairs and pushes open the bedroom door with one finger. He drops his body back onto the mattress and lets the pillows muffle his loud sigh.

Not bothering to pull the blanket over himself, he drifts into an uneasy slumber. It’s thin, like tissue paper, and he’s startled awake not ten minutes later by the front door, and five other voices’ chatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best,,, OoF anyways I (olive blue eyes) did this chapter! :))   
> \- Please for the love of god leave comments I’m ajdhdjsjsjfjfj!!  
> \- Everyone in this fuckin story deserves better AhhHh.   
> \- Oh! Also! Next one probably won’t be posted for a bit because it’s still being worked on! See you then ;)  
> \- tumblr is @catradoracore!


	4. Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE’RE BACK, BITCHES!

“I’m sorry. We tried our best, but his body was just too weak. He’s gone.”

Bill stared in disbelief at the doctor standing in front of him. A practiced solemn expression rested over the woman’s sharp features, carefully calculating as she delivered the news.

Bill contemplated this as well as his grief and shock-addled brain allowed.

She had to be lying. Obviously, there was no way Stan was dead. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t just leave Bill. Bill wasn’t strong enough without him, and he knew that. The doctor was joking with him. It was just a sick prank, right? And

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Denbrough,” the woman continued. “I know how hard it is to lose someone close to you. Now, it might seem a little soon to think about, but we do offer grief counseling services here at Derry Home…”

At this, Bill’s hearing faded out. His limbs suddenly felt numb, and he felt as if he was floating, out and away, untethered from his body. He sat down hard, a dull thud against the faded blue of the thinly cushioned chair behind him. He barely felt a hand grip his shoulder, vaguely registered a concerned voice above him, but he didn’t bother to pay attention. Nothing mattered now; not when Stanley was gone. How was he supposed to move on without his best friend by his side? He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

“—Bill?”

“Earth to Denbrough!”

“Come in, Major, I think we’ve lost him—”

“Bill, dude—”

A warm hand rested on his shoulder, a comforting change from the doctor’s dry and tentative grip; Bill’s eyes drifted open, although he hadn’t realized they were closed. His friends’ worried faces stared back at him. How could they all look so collected? One of their best friends just died, what the fuck?

“Hey there, bud. You looked a little zoned out for a minute there. You worried us.” Mike’s familiar voice caught Bill’s attention, forcing him to focus in on his situation. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he was, in fact, not sitting on a tile floor, but instead in the worn backseat of Mike’s truck, Losers’ concerned faces surrounding him. Bill nearly sobbed with relief. Stan wasn’t dead, he wasn’t gone, he was _okay_.

He quickly gathered himself and took a breath. Not meeting his friends’ eyes, Bill mumbled, “Sorry guh-g-guys, I’m fuh-fine. Just…” he trailed off. “I’m fine.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Yea, and I’m rich and Spider-man actually has eight legs. Nice try, but—”

“Wait,” Ben interrupted, frowning. “Why doesn’t Spider-man have eight legs? That’s so _weird_ , like, he can do the wall-sticky thing and shoot webs but he doesn’t even look like a spider? What’s up with that?”

“Okay, yea, but imagine how weird that would be. Nobody would like him ‘cause they would be too creeped out.” Richie answered thoughtfully. 

“I guess, but what if that helped because then all the villains would just run away from him, and then….”

Bill let his friends’ banter fade into background noise, grateful for the distraction from their worry. They were already concerned enough about Stan; he didn’t want to put any more unnecessary weight on their shoulders. Thankfully, Richie, Ben, and Eddie’s conversation seemed to have taken Mike and Bev’s attention away from his odd behavior. Listening detachedly, Bill heard the car fall silent and looked up to see the hospital fast approaching out the window.

He drew in a shaky breath, watching his friends do the same. A sudden tension was present in the old truck, thickening the air, making Bill squirm and take note of the twisting ache in his chest. Mike pulled into the lot, found an empty spot, and parked, carefully unbuckling his seatbelt and turning around to face the others.

The truck was silent for a few moments, each teen shifting their eyes or bouncing their knee, exhibiting a nervous tick.

“So, uh, Stan probably isn’t feeling great right now,” Mike started, breaking the silence.

“Well, no shit—OW!” Richie butted back, before he’s silenced by a harsh pinch from Eddie.

Mike cleared his throat. “Anyway, I just wanted to say, please be careful and _please_ don’t say anything stupid. We’re here to be supportive and show our love. We don’t want to make him feel worse.” Each loser hummed in agreement or nodded their head, mentally preparing themselves to face their friend.

After a few seconds, the teenagers began to slip out of the old truck. As Richie stepped out, he felt someone grasp wrist hand tightly with a trembling hand. He whipped around quickly, startled, only to be met with the sight of a wide-eyed Eddie gripping the edge of the back seat with white knuckles.

“H-hold on, wait, I…” his voice faded out, leaving breathless wheezes in its wake. The group turned quickly to face the small boy.

“Eds, you okay?” Richie asked hesitantly, concern flashing across his features.

“Yuh-yeah, I thought I wuh-w-huh-was the one with the stutter around here,” Bill tried to joke half heartedly. Eddie’s slight panic only seemed to increase.

“No, no, no, I can’t, I can’t go in there, what if he’s in critical condition and he’s really weak and what if one of us gets him sick or something, or what if he’s getting sick already?” Ben reached for Eddie’s shoulder in an attempt to ground him, but his panicked utterances quickly turned into incomprehensible word vomit.

“Didyouknow, thatoneintwentyfivehospitalizedpatientsgetinfected  
justfromgermslingeringinthehospitalohgodwhatifhegetsaninfectionandgetssickohgod, oh god, what if he DIES?” Eddie gasped, left even more breathless from his panicked rant.

“Woah, woah, chill, Spaghetti Man,” Richie countered, quickly reaching forward to hand Eddie the inhaler he kept in his pocket. The lanky boy rubbed his friend’s back, trying to steady the other’s breathing. “No reason to freak out. I’m sure our Stan the Man is fine. You know him; a real tough nut, huh?”

“And, I mean, if he was critical they probably wouldn’t let us go see him, so there’s that,” Beverly offered from close behind Richie. Eddie took a puff from his inhaler from his inhaler and they watched as the small teen calmed down quickly, eyes focused on the ground.

Eddie sniffled, shouldering the taller boy off himself and stood up. He wiped a tear from his cheek and nodded determinedly, eyeing the hospital doors with trepidation and, surprisingly, firm resolution.

“Yeah. Fine. Let’s go. I’m ready to see Stanley, what about you guys?” Eddie’s friends nodded hesitantly, reeling from his unusually quick recovery.

“Alright, I guess,” Mike replied slowly, frowning with uncertainty. “Ben, you’ve got the cookies, right?”

Ben peeped out from behind Richie’s tall form, smiling and holding up a tin of his and Mike’s homemade cookies in his right hand. “Yep!” Mike nodded and the group set off, squeezing between the hospital’s sliding doors.

 

 

* * *

 

 

    Bill’s hands shook as he and the other losers were led to a small conference room on the third floor of Derry Home Hospital. _Third floor- pediatrics. Pediatrics… oh god, Stan. We’re just kids. You’re just a kid. What did you do to deserve this?_

“His condition isn’t critical, but it’s definitely not something to joke around with,” Stan’s _real_ doctor informed the kids as they settled into the room.. Shit. Bill needed to stop zoning out; he was going to miss something important. “Should we start good or bad news first?”

The room was silent, and Bill felt his friends’ eyes drift towards him, silently willing him to choose so they didn’t have to make the decision themselves. “Uhhh, buh-b-bad, I guh-guess,” he decided, stutter worsening with his anxiety. Better to rip it off like a bandaid, he supposed. The group collectively held their breath in anticipation and fear as the doctor began to speak.

“Alright, not so great stuff first- as you probably know, Stan took some pretty dangerous drugs,” she said diplomatically.

Bill swallowed nervously and nodded in agreement before she continued. “Luckily, we were able to flush them out of his system, but he’s gonna be feeling pretty rough for a day or two.”

Bill squinted questioningly, waiting for an explanation.

“When a patient is brought into the hospital because of an overdose, we give them activated charcoal to drink, and it nullifies the drugs and helps expel them out of the body,” she paused. “However, with unconscious patients, there’s a risk of choking when given orally, so we have to insert a feeding tube to effectively treat them. We also place a Foley catheter to monitor urine output and ensure the proper functioning of the liver.”

At this, each Loser’s frown deepened in distaste and sympathy for their friend. When they winced, the woman continued, an empathetic expression taking over her face.

“Unfortunately, the charcoal, while necessary, can have adverse effects- for instance, vomiting. It is possible for Stanley to aspirate his vomit while unconscious and develop aspiration pneumonia, so while it’s unlikely it’ll happen at this stage, it’s important to keep an eye out,” she explained. “We’ve inserted an IV to administer fluids and medication to raise his blood pressure and reduce nausea as well as to keep him hydrated, but he still isn’t going to feel great. He’s going to be pretty tired and weak for a while.”

Bill nodded distractedly. That was it? They could handle a little fatigue, right? It certainly wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be, not when he was looking down at Stan’s pale, sick, wavering-on-the-edge-of-unconscious-but-still-somehow-beautiful face. Behind him, he heard his friends quietly sighing in relief or whispering comforting words until they were interrupted by the doctor.

“Now, it does get worse before it gets better,” she said carefully. Bill’s stomach dropped immediately. He knew it had sounded too good to be true.

“Due to the nature of Stanley’s overdose, it’s hospital protocol that, once he’s physically up to it, he’s going to be admitted to the on-site psychiatric ward here at Derry Home for a minimum of 7-14 days. Now of course, first there’ll be a psych evaluation, but it’s almost guaranteed that-”

At this, Bill checked out again, mind reeling. Stan, in a psych ward? But he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t some nut job who went around talking to himself or screaming his throat raw. Sure, maybe he was just a little sick, but certainly not enough to be committed. He shook his head, tuning back into the conversation.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but I promise it won’t be as bad as it sounds. His situation is a lot more common than you might think. He’ll be well taken care of.” the woman conciliated, trying to reassure the group of wide-eyed and intimidated teenagers. “Now, for the good news!”

They nodded immediately, ready for the reprieve from the barrage of worry and concern.

“Thankfully, it wasn’t necessary to intubate Mr. Uris.” The group paled at the thought, discouraged that this was apparently the good news. “He’s breathing on his own and is only on supplemental oxygen to be safe. He’s already woken up one or two times and his periods of consciousness should be increasing,” the doctor assured. We expect he’s going to be just fine. We’ve already removed the feeding tube for him, and with the fluids and meds and some nice rest, his body should be in good shape in no time.” The doctor smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

Bill returned a forced half-smile while mentally noting how much shorter the list of good news was than the bad.

Standing up and pushing back her chair, the doctor asked, “Are you kids ready to see him? We have him settled in a room just down the hall.”

The Losers immediately shot up from their tense positions and nodded fiercely, ready to get out of the room that seemed to get increasingly and suffocatingly smaller with each word of bad news they received.

They followed the woman down the hall cautiously. While they were all thankful to leave the stuffy conference room, there was still an air of uneasiness in the group. Bill didn’t particularly want to see Stan is such a vulnerable state, and he was sure his friends felt the same. It almost felt like betraying him. After so long hiding his feelings, they were about to become a spectacle for unwanted sympathy and pity.

“Right in here,” the doctor directed, motioning to a door on the right side of the hall. “Now, before you go in, remember what I said about him being tired and weak. He’s probably not going to feel himself, so prepare yourselves however you need to support him in any way he needs.”

Each teen nodded solemnly, taking the words to heart.

Bill looked up at the yellow wooden door that loomed in front of him. “ _307_ , _Pediatrics_ ”, the plaque in its center read. _Seven. Thank God there’s still all seven of us_ , Bill realized gloomily. He’d thought he’d never have to worry about that again, never thought that that notion would have cross his mind again- not that after the summer when all their lives were irrevocably changed for the worse. _But here we are._

As Beverly placed her hand on the doorknob, Ben scanned the small sign next to the door frame that stated visiting hours and rules. “Guys, wait,” he called, squinting at the small laminated letters. “ _Only two visitors allowed in the room at a time,_ ” he read aloud.

At this, the Losers, of course, shrugged and pretended they hadn’t seen a thing. Together, they brushed past the disregarded sign and stepped timidly into their friend’s hospital room.

 

 

* * *

 

  
    Stan looked terrible, to say the least.

Almost as soon as they quietly walked in, Bill half regretted the decision. He couldn’t do it. It was even worse than he’d been dreading. No pep talk from any qualified medical professional or comforting friend could’ve prepared him for when Stan came into view, swaddled under thin hospital blankets and dwarfed by the equipment around him. His body screamed at him to turn around and rush out the door.

 _No. You’re here to support him_ , he told himself angrily. He shut his eyes tightly, took a deep breath, and reluctantly opened them again to take in the sight of his best friend’s body on the bed.

The first thing Bill noticed was the nasal cannula draped over Stan’s ears and invading his nose. _Oh God, you can’t even breathe by yourself. Stan, what did you do_? He forced himself to look away, and his eyes swept over the rest of the tubes and wires trailing from the teenager and winding over the sheets, connecting him to a myriad of monitors and machines.

An IV pierced his arm, leading to bags of clear liquid and a drip hanging off the pole next to the bed. The blood pressure cuff squeezing his bicep filled the room with a quiet, steady, hissing noise. Several wire leads meandered from under the neckline of Stan’s pale green hospital gown, while a thin rubber tube snaked from between his legs to a clear bag hanging on the side of the bed. Bill swallowed uncomfortably. To top it all off, a bulky gray clip pinched the boy’s pointer finger, monitoring his blood pressure from the same machine connected to the leads on his chest.

The group of teengagers stared. Stan’s limbs were arranged too meticulously on the bed; too unnaturally. He looked like he could be dead, save for the occasional twitch of a finger or small shift of his head.

Eddie and Ben collapsed into the hard plastic chairs at the boy’s bedside, clearly not enjoying the view. Richie and Bev squeezed tentatively into the couch at the corner of the room, and Bill and Mike were left to stand, still staring in dumbfounded shock.  
  
“Oh God,” Eddie breathed, looking sick. Bill swallowed harshly again, nodding. They had all heard the doctor’s words, but to see Stan laying on the hospital bed, in the still-too-pale flesh, was a different experience altogether- and not a pleasant one.

“I’m not really sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t think he would look like this,” Richie whispered. Mike hummed quietly in agreement.

“And we should’ve known. We should’ve been able to do something,” Ben murmured remorsefully, eyes brimming with tears. “Maybe if I had payed more attention, I could’ve helped and he wouldn’t be here right now.”

Before Ben could be solaced with reassuring words, Eddie suddenly bolted up from his chair, hand over his mouth, and sprinted for the en suite bathroom.

Heads turned, and Richie immediately stood up, concerned. “Eds?” he called. There was no reply save for the sound of retching echoing in the bathroom. “Eddie?” he repeated, slightly panicked. He began to make his way towards the shut door, knocking quietly but frantically.

Bill started to do the same, but was stopped in his tracks by a soft groan coming from the bed behind him.

He whipped around, immediately focusing on Stan’s prone form. The boy’s face was slightly scrunched up and he continued to involuntarily let out quiet noises of discomfort. Bill rushed to his side and grabbed his hand, attempting to quiet him. “Hey, hey, b-buh-buddy! You awake? C’mon, oh-open your eyes for me,” Bill encouraged.

He squeezed Stan’s clammy hand, coaxing him further awake as his eyes began to inch open, squinting against the golden evening light escaping through the blinds. “That’s it Stan, you can do it. I’m right here.” Excitement bloomed in Bill’s chest as his friend got closer to waking. Awake meant okay. Awake meant safe. Awake meant something better to do than to wait helplessly and think of all the things they could’ve done better.

When Stan finally managed to wrench his eyes open completely, it was obvious he wasn’t all there. His pupils drifted aimlessly around the sterile white room, not focusing on anything Bill could see. “Huh-hey… Stan?” Bill said softly. “You wuh-with us?”

Stan’s head slowly rolled toward him, eyes finally focusing. Still not really oriented, he weakly tried to push himself up into a sitting position and clumsily grab for the cannula in his nose. “Woah, hey, bud. Muh-maybe let’s wait a muh-minute,” Bill protested, gently pushing him back onto the pillows and guiding his fumbling hand away from his face. Keeping one hand on his friend’s chest, he fumbled for the buttons to raise the head of the bedframe enough so that Stan could sit up without effort.

He laid there for a minute, gaining lucidity, an inscrutable expression on his face. Bill had to stop him from dazedly grabbing at his tubes and monitors again by resting his hand over Stan’s to offer comfort and lightly anchor his restless fingers to the bed. The room was dead silent, spare the babel of a hushed conversation in the bathroom 10 feet away. But Bill couldn’t care less- his sole focus was on Stan.

As he, Ben, Mike, and Beverly watched in apprehensive anticipation, Stan’s brown eyes finally moved towards them with an unsolicited sense of understanding.

He locked gazes with Bill, who tried to silently beg: say something, please.

Stan’s immediately looked away and his blank gaze morphed into one of disappointment and despondence. His hand slowly slipped out from under Bill’s.

Bill’s heart sunk.

Quiet conversation continued on from the bathroom and the Losers watched dejectedly as Stan turned his head away from them, staring detachedly at the wall.

“Stan?” Ben tried timidly. The boy in the hospital bed blatantly ignored him. “Hey, Stan?” This time, their friend sighed heavily and slowly turned to see them. Deciding that this was as close to a reply as he would get, Ben continued. Lifting up the tin of cookies, he said, “Me and Mike, we uh… we made you cookies. His grandma’s recipe. We made them last night at his house. They’re really good and we thought, cause, we know how much you like peanut butter, we thought-“

“Thanks, Ben. Nice of you guys to think of me,” Stan interrupted gently, his voice a painful sounding rasp. He watched as Mike took the container and set it on the bedside table, then repeated another half-hearted thanks, and resumed his stare at the wall. Each person in the room looked down at their laps uncomfortably, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m sorry,” Beverly blurted out, unable to take the silence any longer. The boys looked at her in confusion, albeit glad the uneasy quiet was broken. “We should’ve known. The signs were there. We should’ve been more perceptive and we could’ve helped you. I’m so sorry, Stan.” she continued, not looking at him.

He quietly shifted on the mattress. Beverly looked up and waited, but he offered no reply. She turned away and the heavy silence blanketed back over the room, shrouding the kids in dejection and unhappiness.

Finally, Stan spoke up. “I think I just want to be alone.” he whispered.

Bill’s heart broke. Those definitely weren’t the words he wanted to hear.

“That’s— that’s okay Stan. We can go,” Mike said, looking crestfallen. He cast a worried look at Bill as the group began to get up from their seats. “Would it be okay if we maybe came back tomorrow?” he asked tentatively. Stan shrugged in response, looking away again. Beverley and Ben tried and failed to conceal their concerned expressions as they headed toward the door, glancing back at their bedridden friend.

They stopped in their tracks as they heard a croak from behind them. The group turned as Stan cleared his throat, preparing for another attempt to talk. “Bill?” he croaked. Bill’s head whipped up from where he was staring intensely at his shoes. “Could… could you stay?” Stan ground out as his cheeks flushed a vibrant red.

Bill stared in muted shock and hopefulness as his friend’s face grew an impossibly darker hue. “You don’t have to— I mean I wouldn’t want to stay in a hospital for any longer than I had to either—”

“No, of course I’ll stay,” Bill interrupted gently. The curly haired boy gave him a small, relieved smile. Bill began to return to his place besides Stan’s bedside as the three kids behind them exchanged knowing looks. “See you later, guys.” Bev said as they stepped out the door, leaving Stan and Bill alone.

“So, uh, you s-sound like you need a duh-drink,” Bill started. “Should I go ask the nurses for some water?” Stan shook his head. “No—” he was cut off by a cough, face scrunching in pain. “I’m fine. Just stay here with me. Please.” Bill nodded reluctantly, sitting back in his chair. Silence filled the room again, but unlike before, it was warm and comfortable.

The lighter atmosphere, however, didn’t smooth the crease in Bill’s forehead. As Stan laid, Bill’s knee bounced, getting more aggressive with each agitating thought that popped into his head. Finally, he burst: “Buh-Beverly was right, you know.”

Stan looked up, startled. “Huh?” he rasped, causing Bill to wince and, not for the first time, wish he could go get his friend some water.

“We should’ve nuh-known, I muh-mean,” Bill explained, while Stan began to shake his head. “I saw things, Stan. I s-s-saw you falling apart and I didn’t say or duh-do a damn thing about it.”

When he replies, Stan’s still moving his head back and forth, subconsciously negating his friend’s words. “No, Bill, no one could expect you to—”

“I should have done s—something,” Bill growled furiously.” I _noticed_ , and it would’ve been so easy for me to just say something to you, and I didn’t.” At this, his angry expression fell away, and he looked down, eyes red.

His lower lip wobbled and Stan looked away. He wasn’t ready for this conversation, but he didn’t have the heart or, more truthfully, the energy to stop it in its tracks.

Bill leaned forward, resting his elbows  
on his knees and tightly gripping at chunks of his unwashed hair. “You wuh-w-weren’t yourself, Stan. You haven’t b-been for a while,” He said, with a slight wobble in his quiet voice. “When we w-would have sleepovers, I would wake up in the muh-middle of the night to hear you h-having a nightmare. They never l-lasted long but it was t-terrifying, and it must've been even wuh-w-worse for you.”

Stan looked down at his crisp hospital bedsheets, guilt pooling in his stomach as Bill went on. “Y-Your OCD, too. I saw your cuh-c-compulsions were getting wuh-worse but I thought it was just a random flare up or something. I’m so d-damn stupid.” Stan stayed silent, fiddling with his blanket and showing no reaction while Bill pulled harder at his hair with shaky hands.

“The night whe-when you—” Bill swallowed harshly. “You nuh-know,” he forced out, trying to ease his stutter, which was bound to run rampant at any minute. “That w-was the worst nih-night of my li-l-life, Stan. I’ve n-never been more t-t-terrified, ever, and you know that n-means a lot cuh-coming from one of us.”

Stan snorted humorlessly but didn’t reply, so the other boy continued. “And y-yesterday. Yesterday was awful. We d-didn’t know if you were okay or what w-was huh-happening and I couldn’t s-sleep at all, buh-because all I could think about was you.”

A tear finally slipped down his cheek and dropped from his chin to his lap, and he let out a loud, wet sniffle before he finished. “I’m just s-so, so fucking sorry, Stan. And, if it counts for anything, I’m—” he paused, articulating his words. “I’m glad you’re still here. I’m here.”

Stan still didn’t say anything right away, because the issue went so much deeper and meant so much more than just what Bill probably realized, but he nodded. It was slightly sluggish- all the medication and the toll his injuries had taken on his body kept him almost constantly worn out. “It’s not your fault,” he answered simply, eyelids heavy.

Bill stood up, hastily wiping at his puffy eyes. “You’re obviously t-tired. I should, uh, I should g-go, let you get some sleep,” he said weakly. Stan nodded again, so Bill, in a moment of wreckless confidence, leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Stan’s forehead.

“Bye, Stanley,” he whispered gently as the curly haired boy’s eyes slipped shut. “S-See you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  

 

* * *

 

 

    If he was being honest, at the moment, all Bill really wanted was to take a good, long, rejuvenating sleep. He was utterly worn out, the physical and emotional turmoil from the past two days, especially those last two hours spent at the hospital, wearing him thin and leaving him feeling weary and jaded.

However, when he unlocked his door and headed upstairs, ready to collapse bonelessly onto his bed and fall into a week-long coma, all hopes for the sleep he desperately wanted were lost.

Bill had completely forgotten one small detail: his house was an absolute wreck.

With his parents away on a vacation and the past two days being what they were, there wasn’t exactly an opportunity to come home and clean the mess the Losers had made of his bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. Along with the typical post-sleepover mess (scattered blankets and pillows, half empty boxes of food, and clothes strewn on the floor), there was obvious evidence of the impromptu panicked scuffle that had taken place halfway through the night.

Stopping in the bathroom doorway, Bill steeled himself before walking through. Cleaning was a necessary evil; his house had to be picked up, no matter how much Bill wanted to pretend nothing had ever happened.

Bending down with muscles shaky from tears and lack of sleep, Bill shuddered as he grabbed the empty pill bottles from the floor and tossed them in the trash. Not wanting to deal with the still fresh memories, he shut his mind off as he continued picking up the bathroom. He blankly righted spilled soap pumps and mopped up a dried pile of someone’s vomit, detachedly cleaning until the tile was clean again and the counter in order.

Sighing, Bill finished up and headed reluctantly headed toward his bedroom, which he knew would be an even bigger job. He cracked open the door carefully, making sure he wasn’t about to hit anything strewn on the floor. He stepped in, dodging the pillows and sleeping bags that had been kicked intoto the doorway in the scramble to get out of the room.

The lanky boy set to work, folding and packing up his friend’s’ items for delivering later. He swept up pieces of his broken lamp, shattered when someone had tripped on the chord and yanked it off its perch on Bill’s desk. Following the trail of debris back to the door, he looked up to see his old corkboard hanging awry on the wall. The thing was chock-full of relics from his friends: wrinkled notes, group photos, movie tickets, and, as the centerpiece of the board, seven carefully traced drawings, each of a different bird that represented a specific Loser.

As he reached up to straighten the frame, Bill noticed with a frown that one of the bird’s wings had been ripped- probably the work of whoever had tripped on the lamp attempting to catch themselves on the wall. Upon further inspection, Bill saw that the damaged bird was, coincidentally, Stan’s.

He clucked his tongue in disappointment and carefully removed the pushpin pinning it to the board, trying his best not to damage the sketch further. Once taken down and looked over for any more hidden rips, the bird was carried over to Bill’s desk. He set it down in the middle of the cluttered surface where he could repair it later- but for now, he just desperately needed to get some sleep.

Not bothering to change out of his clothes, Bill flipped off his light, slipped gracelessly under his covers, and quickly drifted off, dreaming of a curly-haired boy. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
> 
> chapter 4 is finally up! 9 months after we started this, and we’re still going, despite the very annoying and unnecessarily long gap between now and the last chapter update- which is, by the way, completely and utterly my fault, and only mine. 
> 
> i’m super sorry for any annoyance or disappointment or any feelings at all that occurred because you probably thought we abondoned the fic. again, my fault. 
> 
> anyway, i’m down to pretend that 6 month post gap never happened if you are...? awesome.
> 
> with that behind us, i hope you enjoyed the chapter, because there WILL be more coming (hurray for oliver!!) to a theater near you... chapter 5! 
> 
> have a great day dudes!  
> \- bridget (justgottasingitoutofme)


	5. Robin.

Mike, Richie, and Eddie follow Bill back to his house, and spend the afternoon watching a movie. Tomorrow is Monday, and if everyone is being honest— they all want to forget things for a while.

Richie chooses  _ The Mist, _ one of his favorite horror films, because it’s fairly new, but he claims the special effects are  _ pretty bad.  _ He’s hoping the suspense can draw him in and drag his mind off to somewhere else. It’s a distraction, it’s temporary, sure— but it’s this or going home and doing homework by himself for hours.

And, sure enough, he’s on the edge of Bill’s couch for a good portion of the movie, Eddie shrieking occasionally next to him, and Mike only jumping once.

The credits start rolling, and Eddie’s head falls over to rest on Richie’s shoulder.

“I miss Stanley,” he says plainly. He nuzzles his face into Richie’s neck, who is suddenly uncomfortable.

_ Stanley. Eddie seemed to have been teetering around the subject outside of the hospital room. What even happened when he was in the bathroom for twenty minutes after chasing the ambulance? Was he okay? He felt that now wasn’t a good time to ask. _

Eddie stands up, facing him. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a bit.” He sounds dull and a little disappointed, to be honest.

“We should talk somewhere else, Eds.” Richie says, pulling Eddie up and ushering him toward another room. Mike looks up at them from the couch, a semi-concerned look crossing his face

“Not out in the hallway.”

Richie shuts the door behind him, still looking down.

Eddie swivels on his heels immediately, staring at him.

“What’s been going on with you?” He asks.

Richie puts his hands up in a gesture of mercy. “Hey, wow, no need to get so confrontational on me, Eds.”

“Do,  _ not _ fucking call me that.” Eddie spits.   
  
“Are you...doing alright?” He asks, looking concerned.

“I’ve just—I’ve—you’ve—” Eddie struggles to articulate for a moment. “It feels like you’ve been... avoiding me for a while.”

Richie tilts his head.

Eddie continues. “Ever since the accident—”

“—It wasn’t an accident—” Richie corrects, unable to stop himself.

“—Fuck you, _incident_ then,” Eddie cuts back at him. “Anyways, what I mean to say is, you’ve been drifting away from me. I don’t talk to you that much anymore— I, you, we don’t do anything together anymore. I haven’t even kissed you in like, a week.”   
  
Richie pushes his glasses up on his nose and taps his foot on the carpet, mulling over Eddie’s words before speaking up. “I guess I assumed you needed your space. I know people get like that sometimes, I didn’t want to crowd you after anything that’s been happening lately.”

  
“And I get that too,” Eddie says, trying to keep himself calm. “But— it’s gotten to a point where it feels like we aren’t even dating anymore. If anything, I feel farther from you than anyone else here. I— I don’t know if—if it’s just because I’m used to being with you and around you all the time, but— I feel disconnected. It hurts like  _ shit, _ in case you didn’t know.”   
  
Richie stares blankly at him, without a response. A mistake, he realizes, as Eddie looks a little crushed across from him.   
  
“I don’t get it!” His voice is slightly raised now, and he fears his temper is going to boil over soon. “Is it me? Am I fucking  _ different? _ What  _ happened _ to us?”    
  
“No—Eds— it’s not, it’s not you. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything, you know I’m not the best at…” Richie starts after a minute.    
  
“You haven’t changed,” Richie breathes finally. “Don’t think that. I still love you.”   
  
Eddie seems to discard this information immediately. “You’re acting different.  _ Quiet.  _ Sure, so is Bill and—Mike— and everyone else, but— you’re barely yourself. I’ve never seen you like this.”   
  
Richie shrugs, speechless again.   
  
“You’re holding something back. What is it?” Eddie’s face has darkened at this point, and Richie is genuinely frightened as his eyes zero in on him.   
  
Richie’s mouth is drying up.   
  
_ Shit. _ _  
_

_ I know you’re not telling me something as well. _

_ “Tell me!” _ Eddie screams, loud enough for Richie to jump, along with his heart rate.   
  
He’d never seen him so upset.   
  
He sees Eddie shaking where he stands. His hands are curling and uncurling, and for a beat, Richie is terrified.    
  
Until Eddie’s hands lift and cover his face, and his shoulders start to tremble.    
  
Richie reaches out, but Eddie swats it away. They both stand there, and the only sounds heard are their deep breaths, and Eddie’s shouts still echoing in the walls.   
  
They both feel the damn break, as Eddie crumbles into sobbing, face still buried in his palms.   
  
Richie can feel his heart shatter into a million pieces.   
  
“God— fucking  _ shit. _ I wish I’d never  _ met _ you.” Eddie seethes, dropping his hands after drying his face on his sleeve.   
  
“Don’t...don’t say that,” Richie starts, as Eddie tears his eyes away from him and turns around. “You know—you—  _ please _ tell me you don’t mean that.”   
  
Eddie continues to stare at the floor, and sniffs. He doesn’t know if he should take it back.   
  
_ Did he mean it? Maybe he was just angry for the moment. What was he doing— _ __  
  
“So many great things have happened to me because of you. I’d never be the same if I hadn’t met you. I’d probably never have met Bill, or Beverly, Ben or— or Mike—“ He stops and wipes at his eyes.  _ “Or Stan.”  _   
  
Eddie slowly turns back to face him, eyes red.   
  
“Do it for him. Let’s work through this together.  __ Please .” Richie stops, considering his next words. “Don’t misunderstand—I can survive without you.” Eddie narrows his eyes a little at this.    


_ Now isn’t the time to make a joke. _

“But...I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if this is what breaks us.”   
  
Eddie swallows and nods, walking over to the bed and sitting down. Richie follows him after a moment, and a while passes before anything else is said.   
  
“So,” Richie says, trying to keep the mood neutral. “What do we do now?”   
  
Eddie grips at the edge of the mattress, leaning forward slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m just so pissed— I just... I felt a shift and I guess I wanted to separate myself before I got hurt. Of course, now I see that’s kinda a dick move,” He laughs. He looks over at Richie, who still looks stressed and upset.   
  
“I’m trying to be better, for you. I’m— I’m trying...I c-c-can’t keep— everything that’s happening—” Richie chokes, before being cut off by Eddie’s arms wrapping around him.    
  
“I know,” he says softly. “I know...I know you are.” He lifts his head up to look at him, and gives him a soft smile. “But you don’t have to do it for me. I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I think I’ve been acting a little distant myself lately, huh?”   


Richie sniffs. “Hah. Yeah.”

Richie hugs him back and breathes deeply, lungs still shuddering in dry sobs.   
  
The bedroom door is opened suddenly, and Mike rushes in.   
  
“I heard yelling,” he says, gripping the door handle anxiously.   
  
“Oh—we weren’t—” Eddie lets go of Richie’s waist, scrubbing at his face again. “Sorry, Mike.”   
  
Mike purses his lips. “It’s okay. Just making sure you guys were alright.” He leaves, and shuts the door behind him.   
  
“So...” Richie says, adjusting his position and turning to face Eddie. “What was it you said about kissing me?” He asks.

“Later.” Eddie says under his breath, but loud enough for Richie to hear him. He throws himself backwards on the bed and sinks into the pillows. “Just let me have this. I’m still kinda pissed at you by the way.”

“I figured.” Richie answers, kicking his legs against the metal frame. He soon follows Eddie, lying down next to him. Something’s still bothering him, the whole thing with Stan.  _ How could he have missed how Eddie was reacting? _

Before either of them know it, they’re asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Richie is the first to wake, arms resting on the body next to him.

“What the fuck….oh.” He sits up, shifting away from Eddie. He grabs his glasses off the mattress next to him, realizing they’ve fallen off.

Again, the door opens from behind him, but this time it’s Bill.

He notices Richie’s messy hair and drooping posture and frowns. “It’s almost six. Mike left an hour ago, I thought you did too. Why are you even still here?”

Richie eyes the clock in the hallway. “Oh,  _ fuck _ . How long were we out?”

_ “We?” _

Richie opens the door further, enough for Bill to see Eddie still asleep, breathing softly.

“Hmm.” Bill says, as if he’s thinking about something. He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he turns and walks back down the hall and down the stairs.

Richie is puzzled for a moment, but shrugs it off and turns around to see Eddie awake. He pushes himself so he’s sitting upright and runs a hand through his dark brown waves.

“C’mon, Billy says we gotta skedaddle.” Richie says, leading him out of the room. Both are still rather drowsy, but make it out the front door without any injuries, or leaving things behind.

Of course, until Eddie turns back to the front door and tries in vain to open it. “ _ Fuck, _ the  _ one time  _ we’re locked out. Thanks, Bill.” Eddie says, huffing and knocking on the door several times.

“Eds? What’cha doin’?” Richie asks him, tilting his head.

“Left my  _ fucking inhaler  _ in there.” Eddie gripes, stuffing his hands back in his pockets.

Richie pauses and stares at him for a moment. Eddie hadn’t really needed it in years. But, in light of the recent events— it seemed to be making a comeback in his life. Perhaps not  _ routinely,  _ as it had been the previous year, but enough for Eddie to carry it on him most days.

“Hey, you’re going to be fine, okay?” Richie assures him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “Just try to keep your breathing steady. You’ve done this before.”

“I have,” Eddie answers. “I’m just worried for Stan. He didn’t seem all that...interested in us when we first visited him the other day. At least in the beginning. And— I have no idea if I should be freaking out as much as I am about him, but I w—”

“Woah,  _ woah.”  _ Richie cuts in. Eddie rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. “He’s going to be fine. We left him in good hands.”

“We left him to be by himself for at least  _ two weeks, _ ” adds Eddie, a little too aggressively.

“Probably, to be honest.” Richie confirms, and Eddie shoots him a look. “But it’s for the best. We all care about him a  _ lot,  _ Eds. He deserves to get time without us, after everything that’s happened.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just nods slowly, and they walk down the porch together.

From his bedroom window, Bill watches them mount their bikes and ride away together. He sees Richie mouth something he can’t understand, and Eddie giggles in response. His heart can’t help but hurt.

_ What’s going on with those two? _

_ On and off. How’d they even end up together in the first place?  _ Bill thinks to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Bill skips out on dinner again that night, ignoring his parent’s requests. He insists that he’s not feeling well— which he isn’t— and closes himself back inside his room.

He spends the rest of his evening mindlessly doodling on a sheet of torn sketchbook paper. His room is pretty big for a single person to be sleeping in, and now it feels more lonely than ever. Sure, his parents are just downstairs, but no one’s really  _ here.  _ At least that’s how it feels.

After over an hour of zoning in and out, pencil tapping, and frantic scribbles, Bill pulls his face away from being hunched over the desk. He’s drawn several things. Small things scattered all over the paper. The pens and markers seem to bleed into each other. And it’s a mess.

He’s drawn a turtle, some girl in overalls, his bike, Silver, bunches of flowers in random patterns. And a boy. He’s sketched facing away from him, splashing around in the rain outside. The red pen lining his form has smudged into the coloring of his raincoat, splattering it red.

Bill stares as it intently, like he’s trying to recall something. Part of him wonders how the hell he could forget. The other half wonders just what he’s forgotten. 

Something must click, because he tears his work up and tosses it in the trash can by his chair. Bill thinks he’s  _ done with that for now. _

Turning around in his seat, his eyes pan over his room, before falling on Eddie’s inhaler.  _ Fuck. He still has this?  _ He wonders, picking it up and reading the label.  _ Yup. That’s his. He’s been using it again.  _

He sets it back down, reminding himself to return it to him at school.

 

* * *

 

 

Richie is first up out of all of them. It’s four in the morning, and he should be asleep, but for some reason, it isn’t an option. He wakes up sweating, head burning with a dream he can’t remember. 

_ Claws. Teeth. Run. Run. Run. It was after us. Animal. Bill. Neibolt. _

Everything’s scrambled in his brain, so he lets it go. It’s far too early to try and put things together.

So get gets out of bed instead. Walks up and down the hallway a couple times, before making coffee for himself and sitting down at the kitchen table. All the lights in the house are off, save for the one above his head. He curls his fingers in his hair, and hears his dad come down the stairs.

“You doing alright? It’s early. I thought this didn’t happen anymore. Rich—” He starts.

“I’m fine, dad,” Richie answers, sleep still clouding his voice and vision. He sounds half asleep, and he probably still is. The caffeine somehow isn’t helping. He pours the rest out in the sink. “Just got some things on my mind.”

“What kinds of things?” Wentworth asks, sounding a little more interested than usual. “This—” he gestures to Richie’s mess of an appearance. “Hasn’t happened in a while. Almost a year, I think?” 

Richie turns back to the sink, staring down the drain. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I just….sorry.” He finishes, losing his words. He gives his dad a weak smile and climbs the stairs. Wentworth follows him, knowing not to question much further.

_ Chase. Run. Darkness. Dying. Dying. “I thought you were dying!”  _

_ “It’s not your fault.”  _

_ “If my brother died, I’d be bawling my eyes out.” _

_ “Really?”  _

_ “Yeah.” _

Richie doesn’t sleep at all. His movements feel shaky as his alarm goes off, echoing through the house for several minutes, before he finally shuts it off.

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie wakes up next. He’s a light sleeper, and his eyes open at the sound of his phone buzzing. It’s a text from Richie.

_ hey eddie u awake _

_ edss _

_ eds _

_ eds _

_ eds _

_ eds _

**what** .

_ i cant sleep _

**okay**

_ i didnt do anything this time _

_ im serious. _

_ you biking to school today? _

**no**

**my mom’s taking me.**

**she heard what happened with Stanley. made the hospital workers tell her everything.**

_ shit _

**yeah** .

Eddie’s fingers pause over the keyboard.

**but hey, i’ll see you in english, okay?**

The typing icon remains for five minutes. Richie’s only reply is

_ okay. <3 _

But it’s enough to bring a smile to Eddie’s face.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben and Beverly are up at the same time, texting each other. Beverly’s father isn’t awake yet, so she uses her phone mercilessly.

If she uses it after school, he’ll be there. Over her shoulder.  _ “Let me see your phone.” “Who were you talking to?” _

This way should could avoid all of it and still talk to her friends, save for the weekends.

She usually starts the conversation. It’s six a.m.

**Heyy! u up benny boy?**

_ Yeah. What’s up? _

**Nothin I just miss u  :(**

_ We see each other almost every day. _

**U right, u right.**

**Oh fuck i forgot to finish my science lab for ms. evans**

**can u help in hr?**

_ You should be more responsible,  _

_ Like me! :) _

**I know, i know!**

**Ive just been kinda busy lately!**

_ Ooh. With what? _

**Spring is such a great fashion season, if not THE season,**

**So im working on some things and omg i have so many ideas.**

_ That’s why you haven’t been doing your work? :O _

**Hey, its just one thing! And ive got most of my ideas planned, materials n stuff.**

_ Ah. Well that sounds great, and I’d love to see the finished products, Bev.  _

**What**

_ What? _

**He’s up early**

**the living room light’s on**

**I gotta go**

_ Oh, wait! _

_ You gonna sit with us at lunch? _

**duh**

_ Ha. Okay, see you then!  _

**K! :)**

 

* * *

 

The rooster squawks outside Mike’s window, and he sits up and stretches. After pulling on a plain shirt, he goes down to find his father putting something in a bag on the counter.

“Morning, Mike.” He says, looking up.

“Hey.” Mike says, picking his school bag up.

“How’s school treating you?” Says his mother, from a chair on the edge if the room. She’s reading a book.

“Oh, just fine.”

His mom nods, “Kids giving you trouble?”

“Oh, no— I made some really amazing friends last summer. They’re great.” He pauses, before adding on. “And the Bowers gang….well I don’t know what happened to them.” He lies.

“You’ve done all your chores?” His father asks, folding the top of the paper bag over.

“Did them last night.”

“Okay, just don’t forget when you get home.” 

“I never do.” Mike replies.

His dad smiles warmly at him, and hands him the bag. 

He hears the patter of paws as his dog comes barreling down the stairs at him, collar jingling all the way.

Mr. Chips jumps into his arms, and Mike scratches his head and ears, and the dog’s tongue drops out of his mouth. 

Mike grins, and pats Mr. Chips on the head one last time, before taking his backpack out the door.

* * *

 

 

Stan’s eyes open in the same unfamiliar place as the last several days. He’s felt a little better with each passing day, but still fairly miserable. Still conflicted. 

Today was the last day his friends would visit him, before he was taken off to some other place for who knows how long. He had finally started to get anxious over it, but was counting on the people he cared about most to cheer him up; and take some of it off of his mind.

For the time being however, he is still kind of restrained to this uncomfortable hospital bed, sitting up at an awkward angle.

A nurse comes in to take his vitals as she does several times. Every single day.

He’s hoping he won’t need to spend the rest of his month in this bleach-white room. Light cuts into his eyes as the nurse flips the switch.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, kindness present in her voice.

_ Same fucking question all the time. _

“Same as always.” He responds, frowning a little. “When can my friends see me again?”

“Today, after school. Of course, you’ll be staying elsewhere for at least two weeks until the staff is sure you’re stable again.”

“But I am sta—” He starts, before he sees how the nurse is looking at him.

“We need to be safe. We want you to be safe. This is just the standard we set for everyone who goes through this.” 

She sounds so professional. There is no real connection between anyone she works with, and as soon as she leaves and another staff member comes in, he forgets the interaction.

 

* * *

 

Bill wakes last of them all. He’s still tired. Tired, tired, all the time, he wants to sleep, but he’s been doing far too much of it lately. He sits up as his phone’s alarm blares for the fifth time that morning, but his head rushes and feels light, so he collapses back for a moment. After a while, he feels himself sinking back into the blankets and pillows around him.

_ I don’t want to leave. Not this house. Not this room. I want Stanley here, I want him to know that I love him— that I’d die for him. I’d do anything for him. _

_ I can’t believe I almost failed someone again. I don’t know how much more I can take.  _

_ If I lay here long enough, I’ll die. And I won’t need to deal with any of this. Any of this. Stanley, or my fucking parents. I won’t need to think about Bowers, or— _

His eyes fall on the crumpled paper from the night before, carelessly thrown away.

_ I’m not moving. I’m so tired. No one is coming for me. It’s fine. _

But soon, the alarm seeps into his brain, rattling around his skull. It’s painful.

_ Wake up. Wake up. Get the fuck out of bed. It shouldn’t be this hard. You do this every day. _

He forces himself to stand after he sees his phone lighting up and buzzing on the nightstand. He finally turns off the alarm, and scrolls up through multiple texts in the chat him and his friends share. He reads all of them, but doesn’t take anything in. He’s still out of focus.

_ God damn it! How long will I be stuck like this? It’s been a year since— he’s gone! _

_ “He’s gone, Bill! He’s dead! And there is nothing we can do— nothing!” _

He goes into the bathroom, bracing his arms on the sink’s edge. He’s running on autopilot, and drags a hand up to his mouth and takes his pill dry. His parents have already left for work, and he keeps forgetting to remind them he’s almost out. The bottle is half empty. 

_ You didn’t lock the cabinet, you fuck. So much for a nice sleepover. _

It isn’t as if they were working very well anyways. He was a good liar. Well, he did his best. He puts it back in the cabinet.

He’s late for school. 

_ Get through today, and maybe it will all be over,  _ He repeats to himself over and over again. He says it all the time. It has no purpose and doesn’t help him through the day. A habit’s a habit.

_ “Healing isn’t linear— it doesn’t happen overnight, you know that right?”  _ He remembers Ben telling him that one drizzly afternoon in the library.

But he’s been broken far too many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this reads like it was written by a 12yo and tbh. i don’t blame myself lol i was rly mentally unstable when i started this fic and when i wrote this chapter. (but i’m doing much better now! :))
> 
> \- oughfhfh this chapter is my least favorite thing. i forgot. how my writing is all over the place. lmao. plot WHO?? pacing who????? hello????
> 
>  
> 
> \- but it’s been sitting in my google drive for six months and im not rewriting it, folks. so. yeehaw. 
> 
> \- the chapter after this is maybe 2/3 done but it’s also been collecting dust for months and months so we’ll see how that turns out. 
> 
> \- after that, though, it’s all stuff me and bridget have written recently; and I can’t tell if my chapters will be better or worse lmfao. hopefully the former!
> 
> \- follow me (@catradoracore) and bridget (eleuthoeromania) on tumblr!
> 
> \- see y’all soon ;>
> 
> \- oliver <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading!  
> Any feedback, constructive criticism, kudos, etc. would be flippin great. This is our first fic, so let us know how we’re doing!  
> Find us on tumblr:  
> Bridget- @eleuthoeromania  
> Oliver, who does some bomb ass art you should check out- @catradoracore


End file.
